


At the Captain's Table

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The command crew of the Lost Light share a civilised drink after hours... and then share many more drinks that are increasingly less civilised.  Ultimately, they share a few other things, too.  Set after MTMTE #3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Captain's Table

It’s after the sparkeater incident that it happens for the first time.  Rodimus is shaken but triumphant, and he decides that their survival (well, the survival of _most_ of the crew) calls for a celebration.  Ultra Magnus is quietly outraged; he points out that “most” is worlds apart from “all”, and trails Rodimus into his quarters, still lecturing him about his irresponsibility.  Rodimus raises a brow at him, then favours him with an insolent smile and sweetly points out that, well, since Magnus is now _in_ his quarters anyway… drink?

Drift, when summoned, says that he only drinks in strict moderation now, so as not to pollute his energy.  Rodimus gives him A Look, and tells Drift that he could probably use a drink, and whether it’s because Rodimus just killed a sparkeater with _awesome_ and can do no wrong right now, or because the weight of their joint secret is wearing on Drift more than he wants to admit, he accepts.

Trouble is, none of them can hold their high grade.  Like, _at all._ Rodimus isn’t used to it, and Drift isn’t used to it _anymore_ , and Magnus, for such a big guy, has the tolerance of a teetotal minibot.  So it isn’t long before the command crew of the Lost Light sharing a tensely civilised drink in the captain’s quarters turns into a heap of languid arms and legs on the floor.

Rodimus is giggling without really knowing why.  Drift becomes relentlessly affectionate when he’s drunk.  He’s like a cyber-cat looking for a lap.  He snuggles up to Rodimus, and Rodimus curls against his side, one arm slung over Drift’s waist, and reaches up to play with his ear finials, which gets a low moan far more wanton than sober Drift would ever allow himself to make.

Magnus is watching them disconsolately.  “See, this –”  He gestures with his cube, sloshing some of it over Rodimus in the process.  “This is the problem… you and him…”  Two pairs of bright, bewildered, and distractingly pretty blue optics are watching him.  Magnus flushes, but he continues, “You’re so wrapped up in each other that you’ve lost – you – if you were flying straight into the Pit, he’d tell you it was a great idea!”

“And if I found a – a door to Cyberutopia, you’d tell me it was a bad idea!”  Rodimus is not pouting, he tells himself.  He’s raising legitimate objections in a very captainly fashion.  Not pouting at all.  He takes another swig.  “If you think I’m such a lousy captain, Magnus, why did you even bother coming along?”

Ultra Magnus suddenly finds his hands unusually fascinating.  “I don’t think you’re a lousy captain,” he murmurs.  “But if you’re never going to listen to me, why did you _ask_ me along?”  There is something awful in his voice, a high, tense note that’s an inch away from becoming tears.  Its effect on Rodimus is immediate and profound.

“No no no no no,” he slurs, abandoning Drift to fling both arms around Magnus.  “I listen to you, I just don’t – I don’t always _listen_ –”  That isn’t right.  He struggles for the words, trying to reach through the drunken haze to articulate something that he didn’t think even needed to be said.  _Of course I want you along.  You’re_ Ultra Magnus _.  You’re my second-in-command._ “You’re – you’re my Magnus, and…”

Startlingly, it’s Drift who comes to the rescue.  “No, Rodimus, he’s right.”  His voice is quiet, almost sleepy, but not as tipsy as the others’.  “You should listen to him more.  You need him.  Because it can’t just be me.”  Drift rolls over and props his elbows up on Rodimus’s stomach, legs sprawled across the captain’s, so he can look both of the other mechs in the optic.  His expression is achingly sad.  “It can’t.”

Rodimus takes one arm from Magnus’s waist to loop around Drift, stroking his back soothingly.  Ultra Magnus finds himself watching Drift’s face, the half-closed, distant optics.  Hesitantly, he lifts a hand and maneuvers it across to pat Drift’s shoulder awkwardly.  It’s the hand with the cube in it, meaning that half the remaining contents end up on Rodimus’s chest and that Magnus is basically poking Drift with a sharp glass corner, but it makes Drift smile regardless.

Rodimus glares for as long as he can manage, then bursts out laughing.  “Frag it, Magnus.”  He drags a fingertip through the sticky high grade on his collar fairing, then sucks it into his mouth.  And Ultra Magnus does something he would probably never have allowed himself to do sober.

Well, he _did_ spill it.  Only right that he clean it up.

Rodimus yelps at the abrupt feeling of a warm, broad tongue sliding slowly over his chest, then moans openly, his hand coming up to stroke Magnus’s helm.  There is a deep chuckle from somewhere below them, and then Drift is getting in on the game, lapping at the drips that have made their way down to the sensitive wiring of Rodimus’s abdomen.  Rodimus _writhes,_ vents whirring harshly, and Magnus’s optics meet Drift’s for a brief moment.

When he’s sober again, Magnus will categorically deny that he smiled.


End file.
